


Merry Thanksgivoween

by nagi_schwarz



Series: The Only Boy In The Room [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-26 05:55:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6226522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three holidays in the Only Boy in the Room Universe, first two pre-series, second set during season 1. John POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Halloween

**Author's Note:**

> A much-belated holiday gift to my readers. :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween, 2003. John POV.

John Winchester was a man of incredible willpower. For many men, surviving Vietnam had been a matter of luck and circumstance. Some men who’d had luck and circumstance on their side hadn’t survived, but John had also had willpower. It was what kept him driving after seventy-two hours without sleep so he could check on his baby boy at Stanford. It was what kept him away from Black Phoenix Studios for over a year after an awkward reconciliation, the best Chinese food he’d ever had, and an ill-thought-out kiss.

Just because he had incredible willpower didn’t mean he always had to abide by it, though. Just because a man could do something didn’t mean he ought to, not every time. So when John sneaked in the back door of Black Phoenix Studios - he’d learned his lesson about lingering at the front door last time - he refused to feel guilty. He tiptoed through the storage closet crammed full of silky, shiny costumes and instruments, moved silently through the cluttered office, and eased open the office door.

Widow Quince had old big band music playing. She wore a pencil skirt high on her narrow waist and a prim buttoned-up blouse, had her dark hair curled into Victory rolls, and her mouth painted bright red. She was slinking across a tiny stage set with a table set for two. She looked like a World War II-era dame waiting for her soldier to come on home. Amanda pouted and winked and blew kisses at an imaginary audience, and belatedly John realized what he was seeing: a burlesque show. Amanda sprawled across one of the chairs and lifted the hem of her skirt teasingly, paused just long enough to show the edges of an intriguing tattoo high on her thigh, and then she was on her feet, wiggling her hips and demonstrating impossibly high kicks.

John closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Amanda was a hunter. She was smart, strong, and very capable. And right then, he wanted to do more than kiss her.

The music cut off with a familiar zip - she was using an actual record and a victrola hooked up to her PA system.

“What do you think?” Amanda asked.

John froze. Had she spotted him?

And then Sam said, “I think you could use your space better.”

Lust boiled into rage in an instant. John’s eyes flew open, and he lunged for the door, ready to lay into Amanda for corrupting his son. She’d promised that first night - she’d had no contact with Sam, she hadn't convinced him to come to Stanford, he wasn’t her _kept boy_ \-- and then he realized what Sam had said. No salacious comments, no flirtations. Just constructive criticism.

“That’s what I was afraid of,” Amanda said. “I mean, on the one hand, the set establishes the whole housewife backstory, but then I am sort of limited to the two chairs.”

“Get rid of one of the chairs,” Sam said. “And the place settings. Then you can dance on the table, too. Why should you be a housewife? Why do you have to be taking off your clothes in anticipation of some unseen husband? You should be able to dance around naked for yourself if you want to.”

John bit back laughter. Sammy always was the forward-thinker, the feminist. 

“That’s my Sam,” Amanda said, amused. “Such a feminist.”

“Males can be feminist.” Sam sounded defensive.

“I wasn’t suggesting otherwise. And I like your idea. I’ll do away with the dishes and the other chair.” There was rustling as clanking as Amanda transferred China off of her little dinner table. “As always, I appreciate your educated opinion.”

“I am always glad to help,” Sam said.

“You doing all right? You’ve been subdued lately. School stressing you out?” Amanda sounded concerned. John straightened up, alert. Was something wrong with his boy?

“No,” Sam said. “I’m just not a big fan of Halloween, you know?”

“Yeah. Kids running around dressed as devils and vampires and ghosts. Taunting monsters you and I know are real. It’s dangerous. But hey - that’s why I throw my shindig. It’s a safe, controlled environment.”

“You have wards on the studio?”

“As if I’d go without,” Amanda said. “All right. I’ll work on my use of space. You should run along and finish your own project, kid. And remember - Halloween night. This place. Doors open at five-thirty, show starts at six.”

“You know I’ll be there,” Sam said, “if only to see how well the teacher copes with being taught.”

Amanda’s laughter was warm, bright. “I cope just fine, Winchester.”

John had to hurry out the back door in case Sam decided to use that as a way out. He knew Sam hadn’t told Amanda the whole truth. None of the Winchesters liked Halloween, but it had nothing to do with a bastardized Celtic holiday - it had everything to do with Mary Winchester.

Mary.

John shouldn’t be watching Amanda like this.

But he’d be back at five-thirty on Halloween night. He had willpower. He wasn’t starting his Miller Time shift early this year. He’d promised himself last year. And yeah. He had willpower.

*

  


Amanda was nowhere in sight when John showed up at Black Phoenix Studios on Halloween night. At five-thirty the place was already packed, but then while he’d been looking for an inconspicuous place to park his truck he’d spotted a line outside the doors, genies and pirates and mermaids and other interesting costumes, not to mention whole hordes of girls covered in Lord of the Rings-style velvet cloaks closed at the throat. The blonde girl at the door dressed like a Pink Lady from Grease was one John had seen Sam talking to on campus sometimes; John suspected Sam was sweet on her. She accepted John’s five dollars and said his hard-boiled detective costume was cool (he could pull the fedora down low and keep to the shadows so his son didn’t spot him), and then John was swept into the crowd. There were tables along the back lined with punch bowls and candy bowls, but he ignored them and found a seat. He spotted Sam at a technology-laden table in the corner beside the stage, dressed like a greaser, dark hair slicked back and wearing a leather jacket John would have sworn was Dean’s (which had once been John's). Sam was sitting beside another girl dressed as a Pink Lady, and they were watching the others fill in the seats, chatting softly and occasionally laughing. More than one lovely, costumed lady stopped by to chat to Sam, say hello, even flirt a little or hug him. 

John watched Sam smile back, deflect the flirting, but accept the hugs with a comfort John had never seen in his own sons. Sam might have been the more sentimental of the Winchester boys, but neither of them were much for physical affection, Dean because hugs were only meant to be accepted from Mom or doled out to John after a terrible hunt, Sam because he’d never had a mother to hug him. John suddenly wondered, in a panic - because the room’s occupants were at least eighty percent female, and what males were there weren’t in costume and looked a little bashful - if his youngest was gay. Was that why Sam had run away to California? Did he think John wouldn’t have approved? John thought back, searching for any comment or offhand remark that might have made Sam think his old man was a homophobe.

At six the room was packed, some people standing, drinks being handed around liberally - Amanda ran a dry house, it seemed, so no one was getting drunk, or at least not yet - and then Amanda made her appearance. She was dressed straight out of the 1940's, the sort of woman John had been curious about between the glossy pages of hidden magazines. She was beautiful. The crowd cheered and screamed and let out a curious trilling sound that made John think of desert warriors in crappy historical flicks he’d seen on late night television. Once the applause died down, Amanda welcomed everyone to her annual Halloween bash, thanked them for coming to her booze-free place, and thanked especially Sam for helping her with the sound and for everyone else who’d helped get everything setup, and also all the dancers participating in tonight’s show.

Amanda was a dancer. Of course her party would be more than a party - it would also be a show. After the performance, there would be more refreshments, and people were welcome to clear away the chairs and start their own dance floor if they so chose. And, without further ado, the masked monsters of Sadie’s Desert Dancers were going to rock the house to _People Are Strange_ by The Doors.

John knew little about bellydancing, and obviously all he knew about it had been horribly stereotyped, because there were no drums or bells or I Dream of Jeannie costumes. Apparently a good bellydancer could dance to any music, The Doors included, and the girls with masks and flowing skirts and cat ears shimmied and wiggled to the music with abandon and to much cheering.

Amanda announced each act, and Sam worked the sound board like a pro, cueing music under Amanda’s direction. There were dancing mermaids, witches, mummies, a vampire, some werewolves, and then Amanda’s burlesque routine.

John reached up to loosen his collar, and a college girl next to him nudged him and grinned. “Hey, her costume matches yours,” she said.

John grunted some vague dismissal and hunched further in his seat, tipped his fedora lower. He really didn’t want to be noticed. In fact, he’d watched Amanda’s performance, Sam was safe, he should go. Prove he still had that amazing Winchester wilpower. 

“And now, three of my very own students will be taking you back to the 1950’s, when life was simple and honest, and all a boy needed to win a girl’s heart was a little Greased Lightning!” Amanda said.

Sam stood up, and Amanda took over the music controls at his table, and John realized his son was _going to dance._

For a moment, the notion was absolutely absurd, because neither of his sons was a dancer. John had kept an eye on Sam at prom, and the kid could sophomore shuffle at best. But the music pounded over the speakers, and the two Pink Ladies were shaking their hips and doing the jive and bouncing around with incredible energy to a medley of music from Grease. Sam hammed it up right along with them, and during a transition in the music he reached up and popped his collar, a move John and seen Dean make a thousand times, and then John remembered.

He remembered being in the kitchen at home in Lawrence, Mary in the kitchen with the Grease soundtrack turned up loud. She’d loved that movie - it had come out right around the time she found out she was pregnant with Dean, and Mary had always been fond of music. She’d bob her head to the beat, sing along to the music, and dance around while she cooked and cleaned. Dean, sitting at the kitchen table, clapped in delight whenever she laughed. And Sam, baby Sam in his high chair, would bounce to the music too, cooing and giggling and warbling along with Mary. It was one of John’s favorite memories. Sometimes, when he was feeling uninhibited, he’d sing one of the duets with Mary, spin her around like they were at prom again.

Maybe Sam had had it in him to be a dancer, to learn from his mother who herself had been dancer-graceful, but he’d never had the chance.

At the end of the song, the three dancers took their bows, and the crowd went wild. Sam, John realized, had been the only male dancer all evening. Sam ducked into the back, and one of the Pink Ladies took over sound from Amanda, who introduced a group of girls wearing little more than strips of white cloth, faces painted like skulls, tall feathers in their hair, who danced to music that sounded like moaning ghosts.

John was glad he’d stayed, because he never would have had the chance to see Sam dance, however clumsily, but he had to go. Now. He’d overstayed his welcome, and he had to go, because maybe he did have incredible willpower, but there had been too many memories of Mary for one night, and he wanted some Miller Time after all.

John scanned the crowd, calculated his best path to the nearest exit, and then he saw his son, dressed like a pirate, gliding onto the dancefloor with a very sharp-looking scimitar _balanced on his head_. Several other girls dressed as sexy pirate ladies followed him. John froze in disbelief. Not only could Sam balance a sword on his head, he could also balance it on his shoulder, and on his hip, and he could shimmy his hips and twine his arms better than any of the girls he was dancing with.

Sam was a bona fide bellydancer.

And he was _good._

John remembered standing in the doorway of the studio, fumbling to converse politely with Amanda.

_I didn’t know people could move like that._

Well, they can, if they learn.

How long had Sam been learning? Long enough, if he looked almost as good as Amanda, if Amanda trusted his opinions on her choreographed routines.

John watched, fascinated by the slide of muscle, Sam’s grace with the sword, his precision and skill, and Sam was beautiful. For all that Dean had inherited Mary’s looks and Sam had inherited John’s stubbornness, Sam had some of his mother in him too. John wanted to weep. When the song ended, the crowd’s applause was deafening. Sam took his bows with the other girls, and when he straightened up, he was grinning widely, dimples and all, a smile John hadn’t seen in years.

Sam, John realized, was _happy_. Not just dancing, not just at Stanford reading his esoteric books. He was happy with his life. And as long as Amanda was around, Sam would be safe.

Finally, it was the right time for John to go. The crowd was on its feet, screaming for encores and making some frankly obscene catcalls about Sam that would have made Dean blush, and John took the chance to duck for the door.

He could never let Dean know about the dancing. Dean would mock Sam mercilessly, and for all that Sam had walked away, he was still John’s baby boy, and if dancing made Sam happy, John wanted him to have it, pure and unadulterated, for the rest of his life.

[Next](http://ficsco-and-nagi.livejournal.com/10569.html)

 


	2. Thanksgiving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanksgiving, 2005. Dean with Amanda and company. Hilary POV.

Hilary was the only student having Thanksgiving with Amanda this year. In years past, Hilary learned from the other girls at the studio, Amanda welcomed anyone who didn’t have a place to go, be it because they were international students or not on good terms with their own family or lacking the wherewithal to make it home themselves. This year, Hilary was the only one who couldn’t make it home. It was last-minute due to storms back east, and her flight had been canceled. She’d called her parents, apologetic, and then Tyson, who was home with his parents, and then she’d remembered Amanda’s invitation. When she called, Amanda said, _Please, come on over, just a couple other people expected, room for plenty,_ so Hilary dragged her suitcase through the streets to the studio, and from there they went to Amanda’s house on the outskirts of town.

“Jolene’s the only one here so far,” Amanda said. “She was my roommate in college. Got divorced around the same time Jonathan died, and her holiday plans fell through, so here she is. I invited Dean, too. Haven’t heard from him yet, but he’s stopped by every year since I invited him, so he’ll put in an appearance long enough for a slice of pie at the very least.”

Hilary wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting from the home of a martial artist dancer lawyer, but it wasn’t what she found. Amanda’s house was full of lovely handcrafted decorations, solid wood furniture, and books. Hilary didn’t know what color the walls were because every wall was a bookcase. Amanda had two guest rooms - Jolene had settled into one, so the other was Hilary’s - and a large kitchen. Jolene, a dark-skinned woman built like a tank, was paging through one of Amanda’s recipe books. A turkey was thawing in the sink, and the counters were littered with cooking ingredients - vegetables, fruit, and bags upon bags of flour.

“Why so much flour?” Hilary asked.

“For the pie,” Amanda said. “Dean likes pie.”

“And you indulge him,” Jolene said. “If that kid weren’t too damn young for you, I’d suspect --”

“You’d suspect nothing.” Amanda swatted at Jolene, who twisted out of reach and laughed. “Kid grew up without a mom. He deserves homemade pie whenever he can get it. By the way, this is Hilary, one of my best self-defense students, and also a brilliant pre-med major.”

Jolene offered a hand. She had a firm, warm handshake. “Good to meet you. I’m Jolene. Amanda and I roomed together in college, danced together for a while, too. Then I quit, and she got better at it. Now she runs her own dance studio and I sell educational software.”

“Ah, but you still have the best taxim I’ve ever seen.” Amanda grinned. “So, we’re prepping tonight - pie crusts, fruit fillings, stuffing mix, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, and the ubiquitous green bean casserole. That way we won’t have to spend forever in the kitchen tomorrow. Would you like to help?”

“It’s why I’m here,” Hilary said. “I was never much of a cook - we had a cook, growing up - but I’d like to learn. Where can I do the least damage?”

Jolene grinned. “I like you. Peel some potatoes, if you please.”

Amanda handed Hilary a five-pound bag of potatoes and a peeler. “Be good to those. Got those from Idaho special.”

Jolene supplied Hilary with a chopping block and two bowls, one for potatoes, one for peels. “What she means is she was married to an Idaho boy and they are ridiculously finicky about their potatoes, and it ruined her for life, because now she won’t eat mashed potatoes out of a box like every other reasonable American on this holiday.”

“You make fun of my Idaho boy, and I _will_ make fun of your boy.” Amanda wagged a knife at Jolene. Then she said to Hilary, “Don’t listen to what she says about my taste in men. Every single guy she ever dated was named _Timothy._ ”

“Seeing how my taste in men went from pre-med student to partying drunkard who can barely keep his grades up but kisses like a dream without me even having to break up with anyone, I’m in no place to judge.” Hilary knew why she was still with Tyson. They’d met her freshman year; then he’d been an earnest farm boy determined to make it big. When the change happened, she put up with it because, well. It was convenient. She had a heavy class load, and he wasn’t high-maintenance. It was highly unlikely they’d keep dating after he graduated, but she didn’t mind. He was warmth and affection when she needed it, he had never strayed, and he did kiss like a dream.

“Are you making buko pie?” Jolene asked.

“Buko?” Hilary echoed.

“Baby coconut. Asian pie,” Jolene said. “She always raves about it, but I’ve never had it.”

“I’m pretty sure if I don’t make it, Dean will shoot me,” Amanda said.

Hilary wondered if Amanda mothered this Dean character because she’d never had the chance to have children of her own. She’d confessed to wanting children once, in passing. She’d sounded so terribly wistful when she mentioned it, too. “Who is Dean, and how do you know him?”

The front door swung open, and Hilary heard the jangle of keys. 

“Honey, I’m home!” a man hollered.

“Dean is who is standing on my doorstep,” Amanda said. “Feel free to go say hi. As for how I know him - well, I worked with his dad once. Years ago. We recently got back in touch.”

Hilary set down the peeler - she’d barely managed to peel one potato in all the banter - and dusted off her hands, headed for the front door. She paused just inside the den and stared at the drifter with the black eye and split lip who stood in the doorway with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He was favoring his left side.

“Hey,” he said, expression turning hesitant. “I’m Dean. Is Amanda home? I can come back later if --”

“No, we’re all here, in the kitchen. Come on in.” Hilary stepped back and let him in the rest of the way. He kicked off his shoes - dusty work boots that looked several years overdue for replacement - and set his duffel bag down by the sofa. He wore a leather jacket, which he shrugged off with a wince, and beneath it a long-sleeved denim shirt unbuttoned over what might have once been an olive military uniform shirt but was colorless with age. His brown hair was buzzed short, and Hilary expected him to have old dog tags, but he had none. His jeans were dusty and worn, too, patched in a couple of spots.

He straightened up and allowed her scrutiny, and belatedly she realized she’d been staring. Her mother would have been horrified at her manners. 

She offered a hand. “I’m Hilary, by the way. One of Amanda’s students.”  
  


Interest sparked in his eyes - dark green, bright, long-lashed - and he raised his eyebrows, looked her up and down. “Really?”

“Yes. I’m in her advanced self-defense class,” Hilary said, and he raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“Ah. One of those students.”

Something about Dean was terribly familiar, but Hilary couldn’t quite place it.

Amanda hollered from the kitchen. “Dean! Jolene here is challenging you for rights to the buko pie. You better get in here and defend your turf.”

Dean’s grin was lopsided and made Hilary wince, but he started toward the kitchen - and he was limping. “My daddy taught me to never hit a lady, but I’m not above fighting dirty to protect what’s rightfully mine.”

Hilary trailed behind him, still trying to puzzle out why he looked so familiar, when she heard Amanda explode in a litany of foreign-language curses. Hilary darted into the kitchen, alert for some sort of food-related disaster, and saw Amanda corralling Dean onto one of the bar stools beside the kitchen counter. She cradled his face and inspected his wounds, swatting his hands away when he tried to fend her off.

“What happened to you?” she demanded.

“Just the job,” Dean said. “You know how it is.” He looked embarrassed and a little uncomfortable.

Amanda shook her head. “No,” she said, voice low and fierce. “I know the mark of a human fist and a ring when I see it.”

Dean shrugged one shoulder. “Friendly bet on a game of pool got a little unfriendly. I’m fine, okay? Quit your fussing.”

“Of course I’m fussing.” Amanda tutted and smoothed a strand of hair out of Dean’s eyes. He leaned into the touch ever so subtly. “I had a whole honey-do list planned for when your tall self got here.”

“I can still get stuff done,” Dean said, and he pulled away from her, blushing even more.

“I’m not sending you up a ladder in this condition,” Amanda said. “Go sleep. In my room. Did you drive straight here from wherever you were?”

“Did you think I was gonna miss out on my annual dose of buko pie?” Dean cracked another grin, and when he wasn’t looking like the bad end of a bar brawl, he was probably remarkably handsome. Beneath the swelling he had symmetrical features, a neat straight nose, and a generous mouth.

Amanda huffed. “You’re not going to sleep, are you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I’m not old enough to be _ma’am_ , kiddo,” Amanda said.

“And yet you call me kiddo.”

“If you’re not going to sleep and you’re not going to hang Christmas lights, you’re going to...help Hilary peel potatoes.” Amanda handed him a paring knife. “I know you know your way around one of these.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean said, and saluted for effect.

Amanda rolled her eyes and returned to making pie filling. “Hilary, this is Dean. Dean, Hilary has a boyfriend. Behave yourself.”

He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I wasn’t planning on misbehaving.”

Hilary arched an eyebrow and picked up the potato she’d been peeling. “I saw how you looked at me.”

“I was appreciating, all right? Sorry if it made you uncomfortable,” Dean said. “A guy can appreciate without being a creep, right? It’s like...going to a museum and looking at a nice painting or something.”

“Yes, because dehumanizing and objectifying women like they’re paintings in a museum isn’t at all creepy,” Hilary said flatly.

Jolene chuckled. “Quit while you’re - wait, no, you’re not even ahead.”

Dean threw up his hands. “Sorry. Really. Sammy’s the feminist in the family, all right? I’m just like Dad, a blue collar hack with a GED. But I respect ladies, really, I do. How could I not, when I know Widow Quince?” He could peel a potato with amazing efficiency, especially given the fact that he didn’t have the safety peeler Hilary was wielding.

And then she realized. “You’re _Dean._ ”

He blinked at her. “That’s my name, yes.”

“No, I mean you’re Dean, Sam Winchester’s older brother.”

Dean’s hands stilled. “You know Sam?”

“We’re friends,” Amanda said. “My freshman year of college, he was my boyfriend’s roommate. That’s why you looked so familiar - Sam kept a picture of you on his wall. He didn’t have many pictures - just you, your parents, and eventually Jess. But I remember you. And that big black car.”

“Not just any big black car.” Dean said. “A ‘67 Chevy Impala. My pride and joy.” He sat up straighter, and his eyes were sparkling so bright Hilary thought she’d imagined the shadows that flared in them when she first said Sam’s name.

“Sam never talks about you much,” Hilary said. 

“Really? That little chatterbox?” The edges of Dean’s grin were brittle, and not just because he had a split lip.

“Really,” Hilary said. Jess had confided in Hilary and Becky more than once, that Sam’s reticence about his past was frustrating. Dean had mentioned he was blue-collar, a mechanic like his father, and Hilary could see in him what she’d seen in Sam when she’d first met him - the hand-me-down clothes, life in a single duffel bag - but she suspected mere philosophical differences weren’t enough to make a family not speak to each other. Hilary remembered Sam had been in contact with Dean during her freshman year, even spent Christmas with him that year, but something had happened at the end of spring semester. Sam had fought with his brother, and they hadn’t spoken since.

“Yeah, well, he never mentioned you either,” Dean said, tone deliberately light, but it was a beat too late.

Amanda said, “On second thought, Dean, there is something you can do for me. I heard about that new innovation - with the rock salt and shotgun shells - and I was wondering if you could load me some rounds.”

“I can do that.” Dean finished peeling the potato he was on and eased cautiously onto his feet. “Learned the trick from Bobby, actually. Apparently farmers like to scare off their daughters’ disreputable suitors with rounds full of rock salt, and Bobby knows how to make the rounds.”

Amanda raised her eyebrows. “Bobby Singer? He doesn’t have a daughter. And if he did and he caught you with her, he’d have used worse than rock salt.”

Dean scrubbed the back of his neck with one hand, a nervous gesture Hilary had seen Sam make. “Actually, Bobby was threatening to pump Dad full of salt, but...we’re still on good terms.”

Amanda huffed and shook her head. “Your father’s a real piece of work. Anyway, supplies are in the closet at the end of the hall. You know the drill. Don’t make a mess.”

Dean nodded and ducked out of the kitchen, still moving slowly and favoring his left side. Amanda watched him go and shook her head, sighed.

Jolene raised her eyebrows. “You’re not tapping that? Seriously?”

Amanda looked utterly befuddled by the notion. “Me and Dean? Are you kidding? No, that’s ridiculous.” But there was something to the discomfort in her expression that roused Hilary’s suspicion. 

Hilary glanced at Jolene, and Jolene met her gaze. They’d seen the same thing, then. Hilary didn’t know Amanda as well as Becky and Jess did because she didn’t spend time with Amanda preparing for shows and recitals or sitting around sewing costumes (though Hilary sorely wished she could have seen Sam at the sewing circle), and she’d never quite understood how Becky and Jess could be so familiar with so formidable a woman. Hilary came from a family of formidable women, and they had few familiar friends. But seeing Amanda, as embarrassed and guilty as Jess had been when her crush on Sam was first discovered, was startling and endearing at the same time.

“Not so ridiculous that you don’t look like a kid caught with your hand in the cookie jar,” Jolene said.

Amanda rolled her eyes. “Seriously. Dean. I’d never. I’ve known him since he was sixteen.”

“I suspect a man like Dean wouldn’t mind the age difference at all,” Hilary said, and Amanda turned to her, betrayal flaring in her eyes.

“You too? No. Really. Dean’s just a kid, and he’s Sam’s brother, and that would be so, so wrong.” Amanda reached out and flipped open a tattered recipe book. “C’mon - we have a feast to make.”

“I know you,” Jolene said. “I’ve known you since you were seventeen, and I know what guilt looks like all over you. For a lawyer, you have a terrible poker face.” She prowled closer to Amanda. “Spill your guts, sister.”

Amanda crumpled under Jolene’s relentless gaze. Hilary couldn’t believe it. Amanda could take on a gang of Mexican thugs or an entire class of adrenaline-fueled college girls without a blink, but one look at Jolene’s knowing expression and she was finished. Hilary couldn’t help it. She giggled.

Amanda shot her another betrayed, pleading look, and Hilary clapped a hand over her mouth to hold back the tidal wave of laughter threatening to escape.

“What did you do?” Jolene asked.

Amanda darted a hunted look over her shoulder, then slid closer to Jolene, ducked her head, mumbled.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” Jolene said, and she beckoned Hilary closer.

Hilary sidled closer, and Jolene hooked an arm around her shoulders, dragged her in so they were having a football huddle.

“Now,” Jolene said, “speak clearly. Like they taught you in law school.”

Amanda looked terribly guilty. “I kissed John. Once. And it was more like he kissed me.”

“Who’s John?” Jolene asked.

The answer was lost in a nervous mumble.

“Another brother?” Jolene pressed.

Amanda mumbled again.

Hilary caught it this time. “Their father?”

“Shhh!”  Amanda’s eyes went wide, and she glanced over her shoulder toward the den where Dean was probably working at his strange chore. “Like I said, it was just one time, okay? Dean can never, ever know about it, all right? _Never_.”

“Why not?” Jolene asked.

“Because Dean is fiercely, fiercely loyal to the memory of his mother, and he doesn’t take it well when his father...you know...with other women,” Amanda said.

“I thought it was just one kiss, and he kissed you,” Hilary said.

Amanda flinched. “Keep your voice down! And yes, it was exactly as you said, but that’s not the point. And I swear if you tell Sam --”

Dean hollered from the other room. “Hey Amanda, do you have any beeswax or candle wax I can use?” Dean asked. “And what do you want me to do with the lead shot?”

“Save the lead shot so I can use it load my own rounds.” Amanda popped up out of the huddle and spoke loudly. “And there are some candles under the sink in the bathroom.”

“If you think I’m using girly scented candles --”

“They’re candles with blessed herbs in them, courtesy of Jolene,” Amanda said. 

Dean hummed thoughtfully. “Really? Like, when you say herbs --”

“I mean not the college student recreational kind.” Amanda rolled her eyes.

“Okay. Then...I’m not going to find anything awkward under the sink the bathroom, am I?”

“It’s only awkward if you’re immature,” Amanda said.

“I’m not immature,” Dean said. “I had a sister. Samantha kept a very conspicuous supply of tampons, I’ll have you know.”

“And you were glad of it every time you got shot. Now stop dawdling and get to loading already.” Amanda wore an expression of long-suffering, and Jolene was smothering laughter.

“For the record, you better buy a throwaway shotgun, because this will rust the hell out of the barrel unless you clean it fast.”

“Noted,” Amanda said. Then she cleared her throat very pointedly. “Now, we ladies will continue with our preparations. On your feet, girls!” She reached out and switched on her stereo, and Led Zeppelin’s _Dancing Days_ spilled over the speakers.

Instead of cooking, Amanda raised her hands and started to dance, and to Hilary’s surprise, Jolene joined in. 

“C’mon, Hilary, it’s a house rule - you have to dance to this song,” Amanda said, so Hilary set down her knife and did her best to join in.

Dean, she noticed, wasn’t subject to this house rule even though he had a key to the front door. Hilary could hear him, though, singing along from the other room.

*

  


That night at supper, they ordered pizza and sat around in the den, debating the merits of movies versus board games versus a game of poker that Dean really wanted to play and Amanda warned everyone not to, because Dean had a poker face nonpareil.

“You know what we should watch?” Dean grinned and waggled his eyebrows. “Home videos of Amanda dancing.”

“Any dancing video of mine you ever wanted to see you could find on YouTube,” Amanda said airily. “No, I think we should watch a regular movie. It’s the holidays, so maybe we should watch something festive, like _A Christmas Carol_ or _Love Actually_ \--”

“No chick flicks and no ghosts,” Dean said immediately.

Hilary arched an eyebrows. “Are you afraid of ghosts? I’d think a man who can reload his own shotgun shells wouldn’t be afraid of anything.”

“I’m not afraid of ghosts,” Dean said flatly. “I’m just tired of them.”

Amanda rooted around in her stacks of DVDs. “Then we’re just going to have to nerd it up. _Lord of the Rings!_ ”

Hilary had read the books but never bothered to see the movies. “All right.”

“That’s not very festive,” Dean said. “What about _Christmas Vacation?_ ”

Jolene’s eyes lit up. “Do you have the extended version?”

“I do,” Amanda began, but she cast Dean a look.

He wore an expression of longsuffering. “Nerds. I’m surrounded by nerds.”

“It has the guy from _Rudy_ in it.” Amanda waggled the DVD case enticingly.

Dean took a deep breath. “Fine.” 

Amanda scooted across the carpet, turned on the entertainment system.

Once the DVD was in, Amanda and Jolene sprawled on the couch, comfortable in each other’s space, and bickered over the pizza. Dean picked the mushrooms off his pizza and set them aside, watching the opening scenes roll, and when he went to hand them off to the empty space to his left, he faltered. Amanda nudged him with her toe - he was seated in front of the couch - and he handed them to her, and she sprinkled them onto her pizza like it was something she did every time she had pizza. Sam, Hilary remembered, like extra mushrooms on his pizza.

The film was beautiful. Hilary was more for the theater or the opera, but she could appreciate good filmmaking as much as the next person. Given Dean’s protest at the film choice, she’d expected him to make smart comments all the way through, but instead he watched, rapt, with wide eyes. And he flinched the first time someone said _Sam_.

Sam was quiet during films only if it was the first time he’d seen it. If he’d already seen it, then he was full of dry sarcasm and criticism of inaccuracies.

After the film, Jolene helped Amanda clean up so Hilary could perform her evening ablutions first. Jolene and Amanda brushed their teeth side-by-side, like roommates, and Amanda Hilary remembered they had been roommates in college. When it was Dean’s turn, he waited awkwardly in the hallway, leaning against the wall with one arm curled around his ribs.

“Hey,” he began when Amanda stepped out, “I know this is probably silly to ask, but --”

“I’ll walk you through the security protocols when I’m done.” Amanda smiled around her toothbrush and then turned away to spit in the sink. “They really haven’t changed since the last time you were here. A couple of additions, though, ones you might want to think of for yourself.”

Dean nodded.

Hilary had grown up in a house with a very expensive security system, and she hadn’t spotted one in Amanda’s. Granted, anyone who decided to break into Amanda’s house would be in for a terrible surprise, but Amanda was the sort of person who, in retrospect, ought to have some sort of security measure.

Unless she was old-fashioned and strung up pots and pans inside the windows?

Hilary retreated to her room with a book she’d been meaning to read since she’d bought it during the summer, and she listened to Dean brushing his teeth. He spent an awful long time on his teeth, judging by how long the water ran. And then there were muffled footsteps and soft voices as Dean and Amanda roamed the halls, murmurs and questions and affirmations. Then there was just one set of footsteps, and finally silence.

Around midnight, Hilary fell asleep.

When she woke to the sound of more footsteps, the alarm clock on the nightstand was dark.  The power had gone out. The house was also terribly cold.

Hilary slid out of the bed and tugged on her sweats and jacket, eased open the door. Jolene stood in the hallway holding a candle and rubbing her eyes, blinking.

“What’s going on?” Hilary asked.

“Freak storm,” Amanda said, voice grim. She was, Hilary realized, holding a gun. Amanda stood at the mouth of the hallway, and in her other hand she held a gleaming hunting knife. It looked too big for her little hands.

Dean was awake on the couch, also holding a giant knife. “This kind of freak storm common around here?” His voice was tight, wary.

“Weather’s been funky this year,” Amanda said, voice carefully neutral. “I’d turn on the generator, but we may need it tomorrow.”

“It’s really freakin’ cold,” Jolene said, one hand cupped around the candle for its meager warmth.

“We should all sleep together,” Amanda said. “For warmth.”

  
 

Hilary raised her eyebrows, as did Dean.

Amanda rolled her eyes. “Not like that. I have sleeping bags. We can camp in the den. Jolene, Hilary, help me.”

Dean heaved himself to his feet. “The den? I’ll secure the perimeter.”

Amanda nodded, and she led Hilary and Jolene through the kitchen to the pantry where she had oil lamps, candles, some battery-operated storm lamps, and other emergency supplies. She’d never struck Amanda as the outdoorsy type.

“Good news is, we’ll have enough generator power to keep the kitchen going long enough to make the meal tomorrow,” Amanda said as she divvied up sleeping bags and blankets.

Hilary nodded and set about making a little nest of warmth for herself. She glanced up at Dean, who was doing something in the doorway - with a piece of chalk. Secure the perimeter, he’d said. Like a soldier. Hadn’t Sam’s dad been a marine? Had Dean been in the armed forces, too? He called himself a mechanic, but something about the tension in his shoulders, the alertness in his gaze as he went from doorway to doorway reminded Hilary of a soldier. Only what use was chalk in a doorway? And what could he and Amanda possibly be afraid of from a freak storm? Chances were no one else was going to be out in that weather, so why would Dean think the den needed securing?

When he was done, he limped back into the den. “You take the couch,” he said to Hilary.

She shook her head. “You’re injured. And Amanda said --”

“I get you’re a feminist and all,” Dean said, “but it would make me feel better if you slept on the couch.”

“How does that work? By soothing your male ego?” Hilary tugged the blankets closer around herself, ready to dig in and put down some roots if she had to.

“You have the most strategic spot on the floor,” Dean said. “Clear line of sight and best access to all exits and entrances. That used to be the couch, but now with the others in here, that’s your spot. And I want it.” 

His tone was deliberately casual, but when Hilary scanned the room, she saw he was right. Also, he sounded paranoid. Wasn’t hypervigilance a symptom of PTSD? Maybe he was a soldier and didn’t want to talk about it. Amanda and Jolene returned bearing more of Jolene’s homemade 

scented candles from the bathroom.

When Amanda’s gaze lit on where Hilary was snuggling down on the couch, she opened her mouth to protest, and then Dean caught her eye. Amanda scanned the room, noted the windows and doorways, and she shrugged, sighed, and helped Jolene lay the candles around the room.

Outside, wind lashed the windows and howled.

“Like a banshee,” Hilary said.

Dean turned to her sharply. “What?”

“The wind.” Hilary nodded at the window. “Sounds kinda like a banshee.”

“Nah.” Dean laughed, shook his head. “That’s not what banshees sound like.”

“I don’t know about you kids,” Amanda said, “but I’m going to sleep.”

“How can you sleep with all the noise?” Hilary asked.

“She says it’s one of her Asian gifts.” Jolene waggled her eyebrows. “Honestly, I think she’s borderline narcoleptic.”

Amanda curled up in her nest of sleeping bag and blankets and promptly fell asleep. Jolene lay down and read by flashlight for a bit, and then she drifted off. When Hilary finally drifted off, Dean was still awake, sitting up in the spot where Hilary had planned to sleep, watching the doorway.

*

  


The next morning when Hilary awoke, Jolene and Amanda had cleared away their sleeping bags and candles and were gone. Dean was asleep sitting up, still in the same spot. He had a knife in one hand and a gun in the other.

Amanda poked her head into the den. “Dean! Your watch.”

He jerked awake, lifted his head, and when he saw Amanda, he scowled. “Not funny.”

“Wasn’t going to poke you with a stick.” Amanda shrugged. “Shower’s free for whoever wants it next.”

Hilary rubbed her eyes. “Is the power back on?”

“Thankfully, yes. Good way to start Thanksgiving, huh?” Amanda grinned and then ducked out of the room.

Once everyone was awake and dressed and had picked through Amanda’s fridge for breakfast, the cooking began. Everyone was assigned an apron - even Dean, though his read, unintelligibly, _Can’t Gank This_ \- and a chore. Hilary was prepping pie fillings while Dean chopped celery and mushrooms and measured spices for filling. Jolene was making the homemade cranberry sauce while Amanda handled the turkey. 

“We never had turkey at my place,” Jolene said. “But we did have awesome tamales.”

Dean hummed happily. “Good tamales are hard to find.”

“You know,” Amanda said, “for years I’ve been having this stray kitten Thanksgiving dinner, and I still can’t make my stuffing taste like my parents’. I follow the recipe and everything, but it never quite tastes like childhood.”

Jolene snorted. “Your childhood tastes like homemade stuffing?”

“Around the holidays. Why? What does your childhood taste like?” Amanda raised her eyebrows.

Jolene hummed thoughtfully. “Brownies.”

“You mean pot brownies?” 

Jolene shoved Amanda in the shoulder. “Shut up! But maybe.”

Amanda threw her head back and laughed, long and loud. Hilary had never seen her laugh like that. Dean, too, looked startled.  

“What about you, Hilary? If your childhood could be summed up as a taste, what would it be?” Jolene asked.

“She’s a writer by avocation,” Amanda said. “She likes to know these things about people.”

Was loneliness a taste? Sterility? Could one make a meal out of propriety? “Asparagus,” Hilary said.

Jolene blinked. “Asparagus?”

“Yes. It was what my mother served whenever important people were coming over and we had to be on our best behavior.”

“Have you ever been _not_ on your best behavior?” Jolene asked.

“I’m dating Brady,” Hilary said.

Amanda huffed. “Touché.”

Jolene turned to Dean. “What about you? What does your childhood taste like?”

“We never had turkey for Thanksgiving, so...an extra-large bucket of chicken wings, a side of mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and those little biscuits with honey.” He grinned.

“You just listed the contents of a KFC family pack.” Hilary raised her eyebrows.

“So?”

“That’s what your childhood tastes like? Junk food?” Hilary had thought her memories of asparagus were bad, but how had Dean - and Sam - survived to be as tall as they were if they’d had such a terrible diet growing up? Dean, like Sam, was in incredible physical condition, injuries aside. How had he managed it on junk food?

“Not my entire childhood, obviously,” Dean said. “I thought we were talking about Thanksgiving.”

“What would your childhood besides Thanksgiving taste like?” Hilary asked.

Dean twirled his knife with absent skill. It flashed in the light, over and over again, almost hypnotizing. “I’m not sure I could narrow it down to one word.”

“Try me.”

“Childhood? Tastes like leather. Mmmm. Beef. Why don’t we have steak for Thanksgiving? Steak is awesome.” Dean resumed chopping, and that was the end of that line of conversation.

Leather, Hilary thought, wasn’t food. But she remembered Dean’s leather jacket with the collar popped and the big classic black car she’d seen in Sam’s one and only photo of his brother, and she bet it had a leather interior.

“Leather? Were you really that precocious, Dean?” Amanda asked. “I’m surprised you didn’t throw whips and massage oil in there.”

Dean’s grin turned wicked, and he said, “In your dreams.”

“No, honey, in yours. When you’re done with that stuffing, give it over here, and then look through the china cabinet for some nice dishes.”

*

  


They’d done it. Hilary had done it. She’d helped cook her very first Thanksgiving meal. The four of them stood around Amanda’s table laden with pink-and-green patterned china plates on gold chargers, mashed potatoes in a handmade ceramic bowl, green bean casserole, homemade cranberry sauce, bread rolls, butter, three types of pie, a bowl full of stuffing, and steaming turkey. A bowl full of homemade apple cider was on the side table. 

“Wow,” Jolene said.

Amanda flashed them a thumbs up. “Good job, team. One day you’ll make someone a good little wife, Dean.”

Dean’s grin turned into a scowl. “Hey. Why would I be anyone’s wife? _You’d_ be someone’s wife.”

“Been there, done that.” Amanda handed Hilary a camera. “Take a picture, send it to your family so they know you were well-fed.”

Hilary obeyed. “Thanks,” she said.

Amanda pulled her chair out from the table. “Well...let’s eat!”

Dean waited till everyone was seated before he eased down into the chair with only the faintest wince.

Amanda scooped up the bowl of mashed potatoes. “All right, kids, you know the rules. As you pass each dish on, you have to say something you’re thankful for this year. So...for the mashed potatoes, I am thankful for friends! Otherwise this would be a lonely meal and a month’s leftovers.” She handed the potatoes to Jolene.

Hilary scrambled to think of something she was grateful for.  

“Is it unfair of me to repeat something someone else has said? Because I’m grateful for friends,” Jolene said.

“It’s not unfair at all,” Amanda said.

Hilary, too, was grateful for friends. Amanda, as a general rule, was grateful for people - not just friends and family, but students and the people she worked with. Jolene was grateful for concepts - writing, freedom, imagination, the wonder of books, love. Dean was grateful for people who pawned the family silver, how cheap salt was in this day and age, a Republican in office because it meant ammo and guns were easy to come by. Hilary was grateful for being at Amanda’s, for the good food, for staying warm despite the power outage, for her friends and family.

Then Amanda scooped up the platter of turkey (which Dean had carved, easy as you please, hands disturbingly efficient with the knives).

“Last one.” She took a deep breath. “I am grateful for Jonathan. Even though he’s not here anymore, I still feel his love, and he taught me so many wonderful things.” After she levered a few slices of turkey onto her plate, she passed the platter to Jolene.

“I’m grateful for life. Being alive, being here with all of you - it’s what makes the universe wonderful.” Jolene smiled at Hilary and passed the platter along.

“I’m grateful for school,” Hilary said. “It’s been tough and frustrating and sometimes mind-numbingly dull, but I think the things I’ve learned, the people I’ve met, the things I’ve experienced - they’ve made me a better person. So...school.”

She handed the platter to Dean. 

He levered a lot of turkey onto his plate, smothered it with cranberry sauce, and didn’t meet anyone’s gaze.

Jolene raised her eyebrows.

Dean lifted his head and said, with inexplicable nonchalance, “I’m grateful for family.” And he reached for the pie.

  


*

  


Later, while everyone was crowded in the kitchen helping with the dishes, Dean’s cell phone rang. He ducked out of the room to answer the tinny heavy metal ringtone. He didn’t go so far that Hilary couldn’t overhear him.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “It’s taken care of. Just a few scrapes and bruises. I can be back on the road in -- I’m sorry, sir. I should have been there sooner. No, I’m not lollygagging, I just -- yes, sir. Right away.”

He stepped back into the kitchen. “Hey, Amanda, I know I still gotta help clean up --”

“I get it. Duty calls. Your father calls. The rest of the buko pie is packaged up and ready to go.” Amanda smiled gently. “Cheapest gas is two blocks north and one block east.”

Father? Hilary would have thought Dean had been talking to a superior officer or an employer, not his father. He had suffered more than a few scrapes and bruises. If he was supposed to get on with some sort of job in his condition, he was going beyond bravado and far into the realm of stupidity, playing down his wounds as he was.

“Thanks. For the pie. And...everything.” Dean darted a glance at Hilary, then added, “Keep an eye on Sammy for me, okay?”

Sam was a pretty easy-going guy, but he hated it when people called him _Sammy._

Maybe he didn’t hate it so much as only one person was allowed to call him that, and no one at Stanford was that person.

“Will do,” Amanda said. “Drive safe.”

Dean nodded and ducked out of the room. When Hilary went to check her own phone for messages - missed call from her parents, text messages from Becky, Sam, and Jess - she heard the roar of a classic car engine, and she saw a massive boat of a black car pull away from the curb.

Right before Christmas break, when she saw the car again, she didn’t wave at its driver, and she didn’t point out the car to Sam either.


	3. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas, 2005. Sam and Dean on the road. Outsider OFC POV.

The Christmas charity show was Meredith's favorite event every year. Most of the other girls at the studio thought it was because Meredith loved Christmas so much, stringing up Christmas lights around the dancefloor, hanging mistletoe in the doorways, and scattering little presents around the office for her friends to find. The truth was, Meredith liked the Christmas charity show because it reminded her of the shows her mother had danced in to help raise money to give Meredith and her sisters a good Christmas. Granted, Meredith's mother had been a ballet dancer in a national company and Meredith was a small-town belly dance instructor, but Meredith had been so grateful for that charity money, and she wanted other single mothers and families to have happy Christmases too.

So she marched around town, putting up flyers and posters and ignoring the judgmental stares of the town's conservative matrons (on the poster there was a picture of Elena in a circle skirt, choli top, and queen belt striking a dance pose). The show was for a good cause - money or canned food at the door, to be distributed to homeless shelters and the battered women's shelter in time for the holidays.

“It'll be a wonderful event,” Meredith said, smiling at the gaggle of women crowded at the entrance to the grocery store. “This town has many talented dancers.”

One woman sniffed. “Will you be dancing?”

“Of course.”

“In that outfit?”

“One like it, I suppose, but a bit more holiday festive.” Meredith's smile brightened. Then she spun on her heel and headed for her car. By the time she was done putting up all her flyers, she was back at the studio, and she was pretty sure she'd drummed up some interest among the young adult and teen crowd. They probably wouldn't have much money to donate, but they'd likely bring cans of food.

While she was out putting up flyers, she'd caught sight of some really awesome Christmas decorations that would make good costume pieces, so she had to pause and haul boxes out of the back seat. When she was juggling with boughs of holly and boxes of candycanes, she spotted two young men - tall, wearing dusty clothes, looking like the drifters who’d pick up seasonal work on her uncle’s farm - strolling down the sidewalk. They walked close, shoulders touching. They were arguing.

“No, that's a stupid idea.”

“Stop being such a little bitch, Sammy. You know I'm right --”

“Jerk. And besides, no one's going to buy it. Do you know what it takes to be an FBI agent? Either ten years as a beat cop or a college degree and then a couple of years at the Academy.”

“You have a college degree.”

“Dean--”

“Well, almost. And I --”

“Do not look like you've had ten years as a beat cop.”

“You're such a sourpuss.”

“Did you actually use the word 'sourpuss'?”

“C'mon, it's the holidays. Live a little. Loosen up, and then the plan will go just fine.”

“I don't need to loosen up.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“I'm not going to get drunk at a bar while you pick up chicks.”

“No, I get it, you're a freakin' prude. But...hey, check this out.” The shorter of the two men - Dean - paused beside the studio window and stared at the poster Meredith had put up. “A Christmas charity dance show. In one week. We can get some cans of food and go watch, right? That's more your kind of thing.”

“I'm not watching you pick up on dancers either.”

“C'mon, Sammy. Hot dancers. You know you want to.”

Meredith wasn't oblivious to the fact that some young men who showed up to watch the dancers had a less than culturally curious or charitable spirit, but hearing this conversation made her skin crawl.

“Dean...”

“Sam. It's Christmas. It's for a good cause. Don't make me twist your arm. Think of it as a reward. We get the job done, we get to go to a show.”

“Fine,” Sam said, resigned. “When is it?”

Dean clapped Sam on the back, grinning widely. Dean was handsome, with scrupulously symmetrical features and bright green eyes, a generous mouth. Sam had scruffy brown hair obscuring his features, his shoulders hunched to make himself shorter than he was.

“That's my boy,” Dean said. “Doors open at six precisely one week from today. Now, let's go get some canned food and you can get your G-man on.”

Meredith waited for them to climb into their big black Chevy and drive off before she went to unlock the studio doors and unload her costume pieces. Should she call Elena and warn her about the two young men? Elena was the one who'd be working the door.

Then the pre-performance rush took over, and Meredith was consumed with finalizing set lists, finding someone to run the PA system, and coordinating Christmas accessories for all the dancers' costumes. There was a last-minute SNAFU with seating, and Meredith had to beg her cousin Josh for some of the castoffs of his catering chairs so attendees would have somewhere to sit. By the time Friday night rolled around, Meredith had forgotten about the two young men.

Until she was peeking out from behind the stage curtain and saw one young man, head and shoulders above the rest, standing in the back of the room wearing a bulky army surplus jacket and hunching his shoulders, desperate not to be noticed. His shorter friend was chatting up Elena at the door. He had his arms full of cans, and the knot of tension in Meredith's chest loosened. Half of the town thought she was running a burlesque show as it was. If the young men in town got the notion that they could come and ogle her dancers and the notion spread, Meredith's dance studio was in trouble. Her studio was supposed to be a haven, a place where women could come and feel comfortable with expressing themselves no matter their age, size, or skill level. If it was shut down, those women would have nowhere to go. But maybe if the young man had brought that many cans, he had some decent charitable spirit in him. Would the town be stupid enough to shut down one of its biggest charity draws?

Elena closed the doors at six thirty, and Meredith stepped out from behind the curtain, took up the microphone Cousin Josh had provided. His son, Junior, was running the PA system for her. Meredith stepped up to the spotlight - which Junior’s sister Hannah was running - and pasted on a massive smile.

She faltered for a moment when she saw super-tall Sam and Dean sitting in the front row, Dean with wide eyes and an eager grin and Sam with his hands jammed into his pockets, knee bouncing, looking uncomfortable. But then she pressed on, because this was for charity and for Christmas, and she was a performer by blood.

“Everyone, welcome to the Crystal Motion Dance Studio’s Christmas Recital! All your friends and family have been rehearsing hard to bring you the best holiday belly dance extravaganza in three counties, and also many families in our community will be grateful for the charity you have shown by coming here tonight. Now, put your hands together and welcome Mrs. Claus and her reindeer!”

Meredith ducked back behind the curtain just as nine dancers - eight in brown, one in a red-and-white sexy Mrs. Claus outfit - strolled onto the stage. Junior fired up the music - a jazzy rendition of _Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer_ \- and Meredith watched Cecilia and her girls have way too much fun with their costumes and props. Most of the audience was familiar, close friends and relatives of the dancers, some of the other dance and yoga instructors in town. A few people Meredith had seen around town but never talked to. Some of the clusters of women and children were, Meredith knew, recipients of donations from years past. 

Instead of watching the girls dance, Meredith watched Sam and Dean in the front row. Dean was, admittedly, very handsome, and Meredith couldn’t fault Elena for having flirted with him. Instead of leering, his expression was one of open awe and fascination. A few times he nudged Sam in the ribs and waggled his eyebrows, which earned him a scowl every time. Several numbers in, Sam’s posture had relaxed, and he started bobbing his head along with the music. Once or twice he nudged Dean and pointed something out, something that made Dean look confused, and then Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head in the universal _never mind._

Meredith wondered what job they had been in town doing, that they thought they needed a reward for completing it. They were both still dressed like drifters in heavy coats, layered shirts, ratty jeans, and dusty boots, so chances were it had been a crappy job, whatever it was.

After the sixth number there was an intermission, because a staggering number of the dancers needed a smoke break, and also the audience needed a chance to stand up and stretch. Cousin Josh had kindly provided some light refreshments, and dancers and audience members alike swarmed the tables at the back of the studio. Meredith scanned the crowd of dancers to make sure they were being respectful and keeping their costumes covered while they weren’t on stage. Then she plunged into the crowd to make the socializing rounds. There were so many people to greet and thank and acknowledge. Establishing goodwill with some of the town’s more open-minded matrons had been vital to getting her dance studio up and running in the beginning, and she didn’t want to lose their support.

Meredith was buttering up one of the yoga instructors - belly dance and yoga went so well together - when she overheard Sam and Dean once more.

“You enjoying yourself, Sammy?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Aren’t you glad I made you come?”

“I suspect you’d have come without me.”

“What was that thing you were trying to tell me? About the hot blonde chick.”

“The dancer - who, I am sure, is many more impressive things than _hot_ and _blonde_ \- had an excellent maya.”

“What’s a maya?” Dean’s voice was muffled around a mouthful of food.

“It’s a downward figure-eight,” Sam said patiently.

“There’s nothing wrong with being hot and blonde,” Dean added.

Meredith raised her eyebrows. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d talked to a man who knew what a maya was. And she was pretty sure the last man she’d talked to who’d known that had been gay. She glanced over her shoulder at Sam, who was standing with shoulders hunched, and Dean, who had a little paper plate piled high with tiny pieces of baklava, and wondered if they were _together_. Except Dean flirted shamelessly with Elena and ogled the other dancers. 

“But...yeah. I’m glad I came,” Sam said.

“Did, uh, did Jess ever dance in one of these holiday-themed shows?” Dean asked.

A shadow crossed Sam’s face. “Yeah. Amanda had shows for pretty much every holiday you could think of, and then some other holidays too.”

Dean swallowed a mouthful of baklava. “And, uh, did _you_ \--”

Junior at the PA set off a xylophone trill, a two-minute warning for the end of intermission.

Sam tugged on Dean’s elbow. “Show’s about to resume. Let’s go find our seats.”

Meredith excused herself from the conversation she’d been already distracted from and made her way backstage where the next round of dancers was fidgeting with their costumes and hurrying to help each other with last-minute fastenings. She’d arranged the set list so the better dancers and more energetic numbers were second, lest anyone fall into a food coma. Between each act, she resumed her spot behind the curtain, watching Sam and Dean watch the dancers. She didn’t know why they’d caught her eye, why she was so fascinated by them, but something about the awe on Dean’s face and the pure, unadulterated joy in Sam’s eyes tugged at her.

The last dance was always the most fun, because it was audience participation. Meredith took the stage a final time - still wearing her green-and-white dress from her solo wings number - and signaled Hannah to get the spotlight up and running once more.

“This last song is for everyone in the house feeling some Christmas spirit. You don’t have to be skilled or even a dancer - you just have to enjoy.” She grinned, scanned the audience’s faces. “I know I saw some of you dancing in your chairs. Come up and dance with us! Who’s with me?”

She shouldn’t have been surprised when Dean shoved Sam to his feet. Sam resisted manfully, but then Dean was wrangling Sam’s coat off of him and pushing him onto the stage.

Meredith let out a zaghareet, and the rest of the dancers who’d gathered for the final dance let out cheers and whistles; they were pros at encouraging reluctant participants. Up close, Sam had soft-looking wavy hair and bright hazel eyes. He was attractive. If Meredith had been ten 

years younger, and if he were straight...

“We have one brave soul! Who else is feeling the Christmas spirit?”

Some of the other dancers surged toward the audience, tugging friends and loved ones onto the stage. Meredith nodded for Junior to cue up the music, and then she grabbed Sam’s hand. She tugged up the hem of her skirt with her other hand so he could see her feet, and she hoped he wasn’t too rhythm-challenged, because he had very large, very heavy work boots on.

“The steps are simple,” she said. She’d learned the steps to this folk dance when she was a little girl. It was one of the dances her mother had forsaken when she went to study ballet, but she always came back to it for the holidays.

Sam nodded, and after only a couple of iterations of the steps he had them down, and he offered his hand to one of the other dancers, and soon they had a line formed, snaking back and forth across the stage as the audience cheered and clapped and hollered. Then the folk song ended and melted into a simple belly dance song, drums and zills and pipes, and Meredith lost herself in the music. She let go of Sam’s hand and raised her arms above her head, flourished her hands in the signal for mayas, and around her, the other tribal-trained dancers fell into position, following her. Some of the untrained dancers made a game attempt at following, and she knew the audience would be surprised, spellbound by the magic of the dancers moving together in wordless improvised synchronization.

Out of her peripheral vision, Meredith could see someone else poised to take over the lead, so she shifted into an Egyptian step and started moving backward, letting the other person take the lead - and to her utter surprise, it was Sam. He had excellent dance posture and moved with the poise of someone long experienced in the art of bellydance. Meredith had never been one for ogling her fellow dancers, but beneath the farmhand clothes that boy had wicked hips.

On the front row, Dean let out a whoop. “Hell yeah! That’s my boy!”

Sam threw his head back and laughed, led the girls in some artful undulations, and then he surrendered leadership to Cecilia. Half of the audience was shocked into silence at the sight of a male dancer, but some of the crowd cheered even louder, egged on by Dean. 

The dancers switched leadership for the remainder of the song, and Sam followed along smoothly, grinning and shaking his head at Dean's antics. The sheer joy on both their faces was what Christmas was all about. When the song ended, the audience and dancers erupted into cheers. Sam ducked back toward Dean, tugging on his jacket like it was a shield. Meredith grabbed the microphone and thanked the audience for the generosity and good spirit, thanked the dancers for their time and talents, and ended the show. 

The other dancers moved to help Junior and Hannah fold the chairs and stack them against the wall. Meredith smiled at the dancers and made a mental note to thank them later. Then she made a beeline for Sam and Dean. Dean was attempting to flirt with Elena at the doorway while Sam hovered behind him, thrumming with tension and half a second away from bolting. 

“Sam, is it?” Meredith asked. 

Elena, who had been trying to engage Sam in conversation, beamed at Meredith. 

“Isn't Sam one of the best dancers you've ever seen?” Elena asked. 

Sam looked embarrassed.  “Thanks,” he said. 

“You are very talented,” Meredith said. “Are you self-taught?”

“Actually, I trained with Black Phoenix,” Sam said, ducking his head. 

Ah. Meredith knew Black Phoenix by reputation only - she danced mostly on the West Coast. “Well, we are very glad you stopped in to our little holiday show, and we would be glad to have you drop in on our classes at any time.”

“Any time,” Elena added, beaming. 

Dean looked crestfallen for a moment, but then he lit up, clapped Sam on the shoulder. “My little brother doesn't get enough chances to dance. He'd love to.”

“Actually,” Sam said, “we're just passing through, and we probably need to leave tonight.”

They were brothers, then. Their closeness made sense. 

“But Sammy --”

“We have to find Dad.”

Something unspoken passed between them, and then Dean nodded, resigned. 

“It was a lovely show,” Sam said, and he had dimples when he smiled, all sincere and bashful. “You have very talented dancers in your community.” He headed out the door, and Dean sighed. 

He started to follow, then paused. “Hey,” he said to Meredith, “Do other dance teachers let anyone drop in on their classes?”

“As a general rule, yes,” Meredith said. 

“It's just...we're on the road a lot, and Sammy really doesn't get to dance very often, and I know it would mean a lot to him if he could sometimes.” They were definitely brothers. Dean's bashful smile was the same as Sam's. “How do I tell if teachers will let someone like Sam drop by and dance?”

Meredith smiled back at him. “I have a list of teachers in the area. You can call and ask about their class schedules and drop-in prices.”

“Thanks,” Dean said. “It would really mean a lot to him.”

“You’re welcome,” Meredith said. “And Merry Christmas.”

If Sam looked adorable when he grinned and broke out the dimples, Dean was positively heartbreaking when he unleashed the full wattage of his grin on the world. “Merry Christmas.” And then he walked out the door.


End file.
